


Au Nature-al

by fhartz91



Series: Klaine Valentines Challenge 2016 [9]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, Explicit Sexual Content, Food Sex, Future Fic, Kissing, M/M, Married Couple, New York City, Romance, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 02:26:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6034534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/fhartz91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rained in and bored out of their minds, Kurt and Blaine break down and start making spa treatments out of fruits they have about to go bad...until Blaine realizes that the stuff they're making tastes too good to waste on facials and hair masks.</p><p>Written for the Klaine Valentines Challenge prompt 'That's Amore'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Au Nature-al

_Sniff-sniff._

_Sniff-sniff._

Blaine looks over the jars and the fruit scattered over the kitchen tables to where his husband is mixing a big bowl of lumpy grey that gives off hints of peppermint and cinnamon every time he stirs.

“Okay, which one do you have, because that smells amazing?”

Kurt lifts his spoon, letting the mixture glop back into the bowl before his eyes, checking the consistency, “I’m doing the oatmeal, cinnamon, and mint shaving cream.”

“Oh.” Blaine looks disappointedly down at the paste he’s created, face falling like he didn’t choose the right one. “I’ve got the avocado and olive oil hair mask.”

“Mmm” - Kurt peeks into his husband’s bowl at the mass of oily and green he’s created - “add some spinach, some pine nuts, and a touch of fresh crushed garlic, and you’d have a salad.”

“Or a pretty decent marinade,” Blaine agrees, lifting up his fork and watching his concoction drip back into his bowl. “In fact, I might just funnel this into a decorative bottle and move on to something else.”

“Like what?” Kurt asks, putting his bowl down on the table and licking excess oatmeal off his fingers.

“I don’t know, let me see…” Blaine flips through the pages of the book they’re sharing, _101_ _All Natural Remedies to Detox Your Life_ , which Pam Anderson had bought as a housewarming present for her son and his new husband after her first ever visit to their loft. She didn’t quite approve of the conditions in which her son was living – the drafty old brick, Kurt’s reclaimed wood decorating and thrift store furniture, the cubic ton of product both men kept in the bathroom. Once she heard Blaine’s story about the bedbug ridden sofa, Pam Anderson was three clicks away from ordering her son an isolation bubble and a hyperbaric chamber.

Up until lately, the book had done nothing more in the effort of aiding their lives than to prop up one end of the coffee table, but they’d been rained-in for the past five days of Spring break, and they were bored out of their minds. Even sex had gotten a little dull, and for two men with a lifetime subscription to Cockyboys and The Pleasure Pantry Monthly Mystery Box, that was saying something. Add to that the fact that after a crazy sale on ugly fruit at Whole Foods, three-quarters of their pantry was about to go south, and Kurt could only make so much jam. So they broke out the book and decided to give each other at-home spa treatments.

“Okay,” Blaine says, bouncing back and forth between two pages, “I think I’m going to try the mango-blueberry exfoliating face wash.” He puts his bowl of avocado and olive oil down, with plans for trying it out on some chicken breast cutlets that evening, and reaches for a new bowl when he notices something on the curve of Kurt’s neck. “Oh…Kurt, I think you have some…”

“Hmm?” Kurt looks at Blaine, wordlessly gesturing to something on his neck. He twists his head and cranes his eyes down trying to get a peek at it.

“Let me just…” Blaine leans over and cleans it off with his finger. Looking at the smudge of deliciously fragrant oatmeal on his finger, he impulsively sticks it in his mouth to see if it tastes as good as it smells.

It does.

“Mmm,” he hums. “Why don’t we just add some almond milk, throw that in the microwave, and eat it?”

“Yeah, you know, I was kinda thinking the same thing,” Kurt admits. He lifts his spoon to give it an experimental sniff, and Blaine spots another oatmeal blemish on the other side of Kurt’s neck, lower down. His first instinct is to clean that spot off with his finger, too, but he realizes as he stares at the clump, settled right above Kurt’s collarbone, that he had missed a golden opportunity before. He steps back from his place at the table and walks over to Kurt, busy attacking a few dry clumps sticking to the side of his bowl.

“Kurt,” Blaine says, rounding the chair behind him and coming up to his right side, “you have another…”

“Op!” Kurt chuckles. “I’m just making a mess of this stuff, huh? Good thing it’s _all nature-al_.”

Kurt leans his head to the side to give Blaine room to wipe the offending smear off. Blaine wets his lips, kneels down quickly and licks it off. Except, when his lips touch Kurt’s skin, Blaine can’t seem to pull them away. It might have something to do with the slight saltiness Kurt’s skin lends to the sweet oatmeal, cinnamon, and mint, or the small yelp of surprise Kurt lets out, the tiny leap of Kurt’s muscles underneath Blaine’s tongue. As Blaine continues to lick, when there’s nothing left of the oatmeal and everything becomes _Kurt,_ it’s the moan Kurt makes that keep Blaine’s mouth glued to that spot, making sure every inch of oatmeal has been licked clean.

When Blaine does start to back away, his eyes flickering up to the gaze of a startled Kurt, he notices that another smidge of oatmeal has materialized where the first one had been.

“Oh,” Blaine says, his voice heavy, “it seems you may have…”

“A-another one?” Kurt swallows hard when Blaine licks his lips and slowly moves forward. “I didn’t really think that I _mmm_ …”

This time when Blaine’s lips connect with Kurt’s skin, when his tongue laps lightly, increasing in pressure as the oatmeal disappears, Blaine takes Kurt’s hand and sinks it into the bowl. He pulls another moan from Kurt’s lips with his tongue on his neck, then goes after more, moving down to Kurt’s hand and sticking his oatmeal-covered fingers into his mouth one at a time, staring deep into Kurt’s eyes as he sucks them clean.

Kurt’s eyes barely dart away when he scans the contents of the bowls on the table, settling for one close by and grabbing it. He shuffles the bowl of oatmeal off his lap, then puts a hand flat to Blaine’s chest and pushes him to the floor, straddling his hips. Blaine watches Kurt’s eyes, not his hands; watches him pluck a single strawberry from the bowl he places on the floor. It’s bright red and so ripe Blaine can smell it in Kurt’s hand. Kurt brings the berry to Blaine’s mouth.

“Bite it,” Kurt says. His voice is soft, but it brokers no argument, and Blaine does as he’s told. He wraps his lips around it, clamps his teeth down on it, biting through the thickest part of the plump fruit. Laying back this way with the strawberry so ripe, the juice from that first bite drips over the side of his mouth and down his cheek, and that’s where Kurt begins, licking from a single drop of strawberry juice hanging right below Blaine’s earlobe, over the sensitive skin stretched over his racing pulse, back to his mouth, where he’s chewing slowly, swallowing before Kurt reaches him. Kurt runs the bitten strawberry over Blaine’s lips, and Blaine drops back further, tilting his head back on the floor, giving Kurt room to come for him. Kurt licks over his lips, sweet and sticky from the juice on his mouth, and kisses him again. There’s something different about the way Kurt kisses him with this juice on his lips, like he’s tasting him, testing him, consuming him.

Kurt puts the strawberry back to Blaine’s lips.

“Bite and hold,” Kurt whispers. “Don’t chew.”

Blaine’s brow furrows, but he does as Kurt says, and the second he does, he figures out why.

Blaine’s teeth digging into the fruit leaks juice down his chin, and Kurt laps it up, every small river, up Blaine’s neck, along the line of his jaw. One small bead of juice makes its lazy way down through his stubble and rolls toward his chest, and Kurt chases it, snaking underneath Blaine’s V-neck blue t-shirt to find it. Then he decides to strip the shirt off him, maneuvering it carefully over Blaine’s head to keep from getting juice all over it.

“Eat that one,” Kurt commands, reaching up for a new strawberry.

This one Kurt bites in half, chewing and swallowing, but the end he uses to cover Blaine’s nipple in juice, then he sucks.

“Oh, Kurt,” Blaine moans. “What are you doing?”

“You started this,” Kurt chuckles, playing over Blaine’s nipple with what’s left of the berry. “I’m just finishing it.”

“I think I get a say in who finishes this,” Blaine says, grabbing Kurt’s hips and flipping him over. He cups his right hand behind Kurt’s neck and pulls him up into a kiss, his left hand searching the table top, fingers feeling a bowl here, a bottle there. He grabs one bowl and one bottle and pulls them down. He leaves Kurt’s mouth, a bottle of honey in his hand. He flips open the lid and puts a golden drop on his middle finger. He spreads the drop of honey on Kurt’s lips, puts a blueberry from the bowl on Kurt’s tongue, and kisses him hard, letting the flavor of tangy and sweet fill his mouth as much as Kurt does, except that Kurt’s particular flavor comes in the forms of a high-pitched hiccup and a throaty moan.

Trembling hands pull bowl after bowl off the table, their contents, however they were originally meant, finding themselves repurposed.

Blaine uses a healthy dollop of olive oil to massage Kurt’s neck and shoulders while he sucks marks onto his chest.

Kurt lines Blaine’s arm with a handful of raspberries, from the inside of his elbow to the inside of his wrist, and eats them off, following each one up with a gentle suckle of his skin.

Blaine creates a daisy of Mandarin orange segments around Kurt’s belly button and lifts them off one by one with his tongue.

Kurt nestles peach slices in the junctures of Blaine’s thighs and devours them, tongue reaching around Blaine’s balls and the base of his cock to clean away all the fruit, and that’s as much as Blaine can take.

He pulls Kurt up from his crotch gently by his hair and rolls him over onto his stomach. He half expects Kurt to demand that they shower first, but Kurt directs in a shaking voice, “Lube…bathroom…now, Blaine!”

Blaine chuckles as he leaps to his feet, nearly sliding through the living room and into the bathroom on slimy soles, snatching their bottle of shower sex lubricant and racing back to the kitchen with it. He grabs a bottle of mulberry wine off the kitchen table before he makes it back to his husband, lying in a puddle of syrup on the floor. If Kurt didn’t look so fucking sexy, naked and covered in nothing but nectar, fisting his cock, waiting desperately for Blaine to return, it might be funny – but only a little bit.

Kurt sees the wine when Blaine puts it down and cocks an eyebrow.

“What’s that for?”

“You’ll see,” Blaine promises, sloppily covering his cock and Kurt’s ass in way too much lube. Blaine goes slow entering his husband, but not too polite, cursing at how hot Kurt is, moaning his praises around a handful of choicely crass words that he knows makes Kurt squirm at times like these, when nothing’s pretty and he doesn’t care about everything being neat, and sensual, and perfect, because as much as Kurt’s a hopeless romantic, and as much as Blaine loves him for it, thank the stars above that Kurt Hummel also loves himself a good, old-fashioned fuck from time to time.

Blaine stretches his husband over his cock, smooth and slick, but with a slight sting. Blaine leans over Kurt and adds to every whimper with a bite on his shoulder or one to his neck. When he’s entered him completely, gone balls deep inside his ass, he picks up the open bottle of wine and pours a stream down Kurt’s back, which Blaine proceeds to sip up while he fucks him.

“God, Blaine…fuck!” Kurt moans, clawing the floor like he’s trying to crawl out from under him, trapped and restless, helpless to move or his husband will take his mouth and his tongue away. Blaine pours wine over Kurt’s shoulders, which he pauses to drink off his husband’s skin, to lap and lick from the lines around Kurt’s neck, and then he fucks him. He pours a puddle into the palm of Kurt’s hand so he can lick it up while Blaine nibbles it off his nape.

“Oh my God, Kurt,” Blaine mumbles, his teeth grazing the soft skin around Kurt’s hairline, “you taste so good…so fucking good.”

“Are you sure that’s me?” Kurt giggles. “Or is it everything else?”

“None of it would taste good without you,” Blaine says. “The fruit, the wine, that’s all the appetizer. _You’re_ the fucking meal.”

Kurt’s never held his wine very well, and the sublime dizziness it produces, coupled with Blaine pinning him to the floor with his body, and everything around him feeling sticky and smelling sweet, makes him lose the capacity for speech, so the closer he gets to cumming, the more any intelligent conversation boils down to a constant stream of _Blaine_ , and _oh God_.

Blaine’s gone through half the bottle before he begins to worry that he won’t be able to keep up this pace if he becomes clumsy drunk. But drunk off wine or drunk of Kurt - they both feel so similar, he’s not sure which he is since there’s no way he could actually have drunk the amount of wine missing from the bottle. Beneath him, Kurt’s moans turn into whimpers, slipping into baby talk as his tired mind tries to hold out long enough to reach completion with his husband, not wanting to miss that window where the two of them can cum together.

Blaine lays flat on Kurt’s back and rolls to his side, pulling Kurt with him, fumbling with lube and resigning them to a not-so-dry spot on the floor where he can pound inside Kurt and pump his cock, in the hopes of making Kurt feel as exquisitely as he tastes.

Kurt stops writhing, stops his restless shifting, and surrenders so Blaine can finish them both. He lifts his arms behind him to loop around Blaine’s neck, wraps a leg around Blaine’s leg, and holds on tight, bracing himself for the oncoming wash of heat already popping and sizzling throughout his body while the world spins and swoops in front of his eyes.

“Oh God, Kurt,” Blaine mutters, with a buzzed laugh around his husband’s name. “You smell incredible. And you taste like candy.”

“I never thought hearing that would actually be erotic,” Kurt says.

“I never thought you could taste better than you already do,” Blaine chuckles, feeling his warm muscles melt and needing to push them farther, just a hair longer, so that the moment they’ve been building towards doesn’t slip cruelly away.

“Then why don’t you take a bite?” Kurt drops his shoulder and exposes his neck, needing to feel something more intense to break through the veil of alcohol.

Blaine shudders at the offer. Kurt usually doesn’t like hickeys that show. Blaine loves them, loves other people seeing them, knowing that he’s the one that gave them to him. But they’re breaking all sorts of rules today – making messes, drinking wine in the early afternoon, fucking on the kitchen floor. Blaine fits his mouth over Kurt’s neck, over that one spot that Kurt ranks as one of his dirty pleasures since he doesn’t let Blaine take advantage of it often, and bites down – gently at first, a tender gnaw, then harder. Blaine makes everything harder, faster, dragging Kurt to the edge, moaning and tightening around his body, pulling his energy to the center of his body, preparing to let it go.

“Kurt,” Blaine groans, and he pulls in, too, teeth clamping down, nails curling into the taffy on Kurt’s hips, his hips moving on their own while everything inside him ignites, firing off in tiny bursts, culminating in his stomach and scorching him straight to his soul. “Oh, fuck, Kurt… _fuck_ …”

Kurt’s brain lists and whorls when he feels Blaine’s hips falter, when he hears Blaine grunt his name and the word _fuck,_ searing them both in his mind. He cums with his husband’s mouth on his neck, sucking hard and deep, an almost unbearable burn over the already impassioned fervor of cumming in his husband’s arms. He groans, all the feels, good and bad, settling in, his muscles tight from cumming, his skin an absolute travesty of fructose and citric acid, which will probably give him an amazing youthful glow once it’s rinsed clean. He blinks until life becomes stable again, steady underneath him. He sweeps his eyes around the floor in front of him, grimacing at the pool of slop they’re lying in.

“This is going to be _really_ obnoxious to clean up,” Kurt says.

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, turning his head away from Kurt’s skin so he can take a breath of cool air. “Yeah, it will.”

“Well” – Kurt rolls slowly in Blaine’s arms, tendrils of tacky juice trying to keep him tethered in place – “it’s a good thing I loved every minute of it then.”

Blaine leans in for another kiss, figuring he’ll steal one more taste of fruit and wine off Kurt’s lips before they wash all this off.

“So,” Kurt mumbles against his husband’s lips, “do we thank your mom for this?”

Blaine stops kissing his husband, turning his head quickly before he accidentally spits in his face. “Oh, God, Kurt,” Blaine giggles, burying his head on his husband’s sticky shoulder. “No…just…no…”


End file.
